Young Writers Society

All right, for the first poem I am posting up here, it shall be my best. I have written some awesome poetry, but none shall surpass this...if it does, then someone should give me one heck of an orgasm for how awesome that poem would be!

Vegetarian


Walking home from life,
Tired, oh so tired today,
I try so hard,
Every day I work another piece of my heart to death.
But I keep going on,
On and on and on…
And on…
Because of bills,
And rent,
And taxes,
And a thousand other insignificant things that the talking box in my living room tells me that I need,
So I become like that bunny,
You know, the pink one with a drum,
The one that goes on and on and on and on and on…
And on…
With no point but to go on…
That’s what I am,
That’s what I’ve become,
Economy’s,
Society’s,
Everybody’s pink drumming bunny.
Morning came,
And I turned on,
Night is coming,
But I can’t turn off,
Because I have to go on…
And on…
I was happy when I was younger,
I remember happy,
Back it wasn’t mine,
Back when grief wasn’t mine,
When sorrow and pain weren’t mine,
When I knew nothing of hate and fear,
When black and white were just colors in my box of crayons,
And not people,
When I had deep within me a burning joy that could not be squelched beneath the unforgiving heel of life’s cold steel boot because everyone is afraid of anything that breaks free from it’s designated lines of normalcy,
Only it could,
And it was,
Because it was never truly mine but a gift that I was to take care of,
Only I didn’t,
Because I never knew that it wasn’t mine,
Until it was gone.
What is mine?
Because I have no mine.
To have a mine I must first have a me,
And I am nothing.
I have no time,
I have no mind,
I have no heart, no soul, no laughter, no joy, no life in a lifeless world,
No mine to be mine.
All of it belongs to the top dogs,
To the fat cats, the high horses, the big corporate sharks that rip and tear through children’s dreams with their steel teeth made of money and politics in a world where that’s all that ever really matters,
And none of it goes to the underdog,
But then again,
It does.
Because people like to root for that underdog,
And no one roots for me,
No one even knows I exist.
I’m not even the underdog,
Or a middle dog,
And definitely not that top dog,
I’m just me,
And no matter what,
I have to go on…
And on…
I am perpetually crushed beneath the daily pile of bad decisions made worse because no one can look past their artificial noses and painted faces to the heart of the problem,
No one can see past the lies to the heart of me,
Because I am the problem,
And so is every other no name, no breed, no life that scuttles through the nowhere of society because we do not even rate the esteem of running through it’s sewers,
Because we are worse than sewer rats,
Because we are nothing.
And so I’m walking home,
Tired, oh so tired today,
And no one looks at me,
No one even cares,
No one looks down their plastic noses, muck filled lips, or chemical enhanced figures that are only that way because every one of them is trying to become that digitally enhanced picture of a woman who never truly existed to see the silent truth offered by my face,
My clean face,
My natural, cosmetic free face,
And none of them look past their so-called ‘fruits of labor’,
While every day I want to stand up and scream at them,
For they are not fruits, but veggies!
And like veggies they live in the ground,
And they eat, sleep, drink, think, and dream dirt but can never understand that they do so for like the mindless things they are they are incapable of knowing that they do so and because it is all they have ever known or will ever know,
And I laugh and laugh at them as I eat my salad,
And never feel sorry for the stupid carrots,
Or whatever veggie it is that improves my eyesight.
For by watching them,
And keeping the knowledge in my heart that what they do is wrong,
I see better,
Farther,
In more detail than they could ever imagine,
And yet I’m still the no one,
The nothing,
The thing to small to even crawl in the sewers of lettuce,
So what does that make me?
Tired, oh so very tired today,
As I walk in my door,
My very small door,
The only door, the only home that I can afford thanks to a world filled with discrimination, and patronization, and paralyzation and paranoid nations that still do not truly believe that a woman is anything more that a thing come from man,
And I hope it hurt him,
I hope God made Adam experience the full ‘joy’ of childbirth,
But then again,
Now that the thought has crossed my mind,
If Eve came from Adam’s body to be his wife, should we not accuse our eldest ancestors of incest?
Or, since Eve is truly of the flesh of Adam, and not of his loins, should we then consider their union to be closer to ‘jacking off’?
Why don’t any of the religious onions, or was it minions, or are they really rutabagas?
Whatever they are, they follow the word of their zucchini god so fully and whole heartedly that no word of common sense, or even the thoughts of someone who sees more clearly than they, can break through the walls of their broccoli faith to allow them to ask such questions such as this.
Or maybe, I just think too much?
And all I want to do is lie down,
I want to lie down and sleep away this suffocating coat of salad dressing, and dream away my chains of croutons, break past my walls of bacon bits and over my cheese barriers out of this world of a dieter’s lunch into some semblance of reality,
But I cannot,
Because I have to go on…
And on…
Because the little pink bunny always goes on…
And on and on and on and on and on…
Stupid carrots.